


Disapproval

by running_in_circles



Series: The Lion and the Tiger [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: British Empire, Choices, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Worry, there's fluff in this one i swear, well a little fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/running_in_circles/pseuds/running_in_circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>October 2013 - February 2014. Not everyone likes England and India's relationship as much as they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ireland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background info at the end

Ireland is perhaps the first to notice what has been happening between them. It isn’t surprising, given how close she was to India in the empire and how much she has to work with England in the EU.

 

So India is not totally surprised when Ireland calls after a trade meeting with EU ministers in Brussels and says it has been too long. She sits in Ireland’s little kitchen with its old black cupboards and shiny faux wood table. Ireland brings over two mugs, hands one to her and takes a seat across from her. “It’s been a while,” she says and smiles.

 

India agrees and decides to steer away from the topic before they arrive at it.

“You look tired.”

 

Ireland smiles and shrugs. “You should see Greece.”

 

“It’s been a hard year,” India admits.

 

Ireland’s dark red hair seems thinner than it once was and as she flicks it back, India notes traces of bags under her eyes.

“That it has. Germany reckons things are improving now in the EU though. I’m sure England’s told you all about this anyway.”

 

The lead-on is obvious enough to confirm India’s suspicions about her friend’s real intentions. Still, she sips at her tea and tries to deflect. “Germany mentioned it himself, actually at – “

 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with England recently, haven’t you?” Ireland doesn’t look at her but frowns slightly into her own mug as if searching for answers.

 

“We do talk, yes,” India replies coolly.

 

Ireland is a good friend, and someone India does not want to hurt. She remembers many talks with Ireland. She remembers warmth and a togetherness forged from being at the receiving end of the same cruelty. India decides there is no point in pretending anymore.

“Ireland, I – “

 

“You’ve been very close recently.” She is still looking deep into her mug. “I heard he visited you for quite a while.”

 

“It was a trade delegation – “ India begins, but Ireland appears not to have heard her.

“I didn’t realise you two were so friendly of late.” And then she does look up, and her blue eyes – the one trait she has in common with England – gaze piercingly at India.

 

India sighs a little. “Ireland, it’s not as you think.”

 

“Can you understand why I might find that a little…strange?”

 

“Believe me when I say I find it no less strange myself.”

 

Ireland’s eyes demand more of an explanation.

 

“Ireland, I didn’t fall into his arms and ride off into the sunset with him!”

 

“So what did you do then?”

 

“He wanted to see me. I talked with him. We…we talked about a lot of things.”

 

"So you’re going to let bygones be bygones. Forgive and forget? Is that what he wanted?” Ireland’s voice is calm but India can hear the fire crackling in her throat.

 

“Of course not!” India reaches across the table and lays a hand on Ireland’s. The skin on it is as rough as hers.

 

“Ireland, do you really think I’ve forgotten?”

 

“I just didn’t think…”

 

“Neither did I.”

 

Ireland snorts angrily. “Didn’t see it coming, you’re saying?” She brushes her hand off.

 

“Look, Ireland. You know perfectly well I won’t forget what he’s done to me, or you or anyone.” India can feel irritation coming into her own voice and forces it down.

 

“So what’s all this, then?”

 

“This is me trying to move on as much as my people have done!” She looks straight at Ireland and leaves the comparison hanging unsaid in the air.

 

Ireland sighs and presses her fingers into her eyes and rubs them, stretching out the faint dark circles under them. “It’s different for you,” she says quietly, and sounds as tired as thousands of years of history and a debilitating economic crash.

 

India feels a sting of guilt, “We’re the same, Ireland.”

 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, India, but you’re doing just fantastic.”

 

“What’s that got to do with England?”

 

“I’m sure he’d look more attractive after 70 odd years away from him and a bloody superpower status.”

 

India feels a spark of anger but it is washed over by a sudden burst of laughter. It is brought on more by surprise than amusement.

 

“Maybe you can find a giant sail and stick it on one of your mountains and sail away from him. You’ve always complained about the weather here.”

 

Ireland rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, India…”

 

“I know,” and she reaches over and pats Ireland’s hand again, “I’m not going mad." she says comfortingly, "I’m not being stupid. We’re just patching things up. I don’t want to waste any more energy being angry at him.”

 

“Fair enough." Ireland acquiesces, "I just didn’t think you’d ever go for… you know. _England_.” She smirks and says the name like it’s a bad odour.

 

India hides a smile behind the rim of her cup.

 

“He’s always had a thing for you, you know.”

 

India chokes on the sip she took. “What gave you _that_ impression?”

 

Ireland’s smirk is wider now. “Don’t tell me you didn’t ever notice…”

 

And India disputes the point happily. Seventy years have passed since the manacles that shackled them both were lifted. It is nice to know that a friend has remained.

 

India knows Ireland still isn’t as happy as she makes out to be with the idea. And that she may be the first of many to have this conversation with. Still, they part amicably enough to embrace. Ireland hugs her tightly and India is bizarrely reminded of another hug over seventy years ago, when Ireland had won her freedom with a split lip and a few bullet holes as battle scars and India was still a captive.

 

She is glad this time she has managed to let go before Ireland.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ireland and India were both colonies of the British Empire. Their independence campaigns were closely linked and the two countries vocally supported each others'.  
> Irish independence - 1921  
> Indian independence - 1947


	2. Australia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All background info is at end

Others have noticed by the time Australia does, but not everyone chooses to seize the topic by the horns and wrestle it as he chooses to. 

 

"So you and England, eh?" he says to India as they watch her Prime Minister speak to his Parliament about welcoming an age of better relations.

"What about us?" 

"Heard that you two have been getting it on."

"Perhaps you should listen to better sources of information."

Australia raises a thick eyebrow at her. "Am I wrong?"

"We've been talking," India explains slowly, eyes fixed on her Prime Minister, "we're working through a few things."

Australia grins widely at her. "Hey, I'm not passing comment. I always said you two'd suit."

"When have you ever said anything like that?"

Australia shrugs easily and turns to watch one of his politicians shake hands with her PM. "Well, I wouldn't go vocalising those thoughts around the two of you, would I?" He raises his voice over the polite applause. "I'd actually like to make it to a few thousand years old."

India jabs him in the ribs. He sniggers and they listen to his PM for a few seconds, until he says, "So you're really doing this - with England?"

"No, it was all an illusion to mess around with you, as a matter of fact."

"I'm serious," he protests, "I never thought you and England would _actually_ …you know - after everything."

"Like I say," she tells him, slow and deliberate, "we're working through some things."

Australia smirks. "So you haven't bedded him yet, you're just sticking to snogging him at arms' length, are you?"

"Don't be so crass, Australia."

"You sound just like him."

"Well, very occasionally he does speak sense."

Australia's smirk grows wider. "Is that all you do with him? Just speak sense? Nothing a little more…active?"

India jabs him harder this time and he has to smother his laughter hastily as heads turn their way.

 

 

It is afterwards, when their ministers eat lunch together and they have been excused after much hand-shaking and smiling, that Australia asks her, voice low and serious, "So you're really with England? You're sure about this?"

They are walking through Canberra to an Indian restaurant that Australia swears (and India doubts) makes her food properly.

"What can I say? It's nice to actually get on with him for once," she sighs.

"But after everything he's done?"

India sighs again. "I never thought he could change so much in seventy years. I know he might not really have changed - or maybe he wants to make himself believe he's different - but he really seems…"

"He does seem different now," Australia agrees slowly, "he's not so dead set on self-preservation. He gives a damn about things now."

India looks at him and is painfully reminded of another Australia, a little younger and lot more naive, laughing off a Japanese invasion in a trembling voice while his troops were slain in Europe half a world away.

"I guess we can give him another chance, can't we?" he asks.

"Things have changed enough that a second chance seems quite fair," India says, chewing her words carefully.

"Well, good. He could use the company. He's turning into a right antisocial bastard," Australia reflects lightly.

India thinks it is nice that Australia, at least, has enough happy memories of England to forgive him a little easier than most.

"So it's all okay?" he turns to her, serious again and she has to drag him out of the way of a rushed man in a suit, "He's not making you…I mean - you don't want me to talk to him or anything, do you?"

India looks at him and bursts out laughing. She ruffles his hair in the way he hates and tells him, "You don't need to look after me, you silly boy,"

Australia reddens and fixes his hair carefully. 

"Who knows," she smiles, "if he really is serious about this, you could end up calling me Mummy,"

She laughs when he grimaces.

"He's not my dad," he insists quietly.

"I know," she assures him, "but we're giving him another chance, aren't we?"

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What India is referring to when she talks about an invasion of Australia:  
> During WW2 the Australian government believed it was under threat from a Japanese sea invasion of the Australian mainland (the invasion never actually occurred as other events of the war took precedence for Japan), Japan being on the side of the Axis and Australia the Allies. The Australian government asked Churchill repeatedly to return some Australian troops to defend the country but Churchill refused, saying that they were needed in Europe. The Australian government had sincerely believed that as Australian troops fought to defend the UK, the UK would in return aid Australia when it was needed.


	3. South Africa

India tries not to think of the irony in seeking South Africa out after a cricket match to talk about England. When her team had fixed their dates for a South African tour she wrangled the free tickets she was sometimes allowed, knowing South Africa would do the same and that they would have a reason to talk that wasn't totally England-related. He may have stopped calling and emailing her, but he certainly wasn't going to miss this match to avoid her.

So far she had been taking a passive stance, allowing _them_ to come to _her_ about the whispers that had been going around about her and England. She'd thought herself far too busy and old and not nearly stupid enough to do anything about said whispers. But South Africa was different. She didn't want to wait for South Africa to see her - not that he was going to; the sting of what he doubtless considered her betrayal hung around her in the unanswered calls and radio silence.

She takes her seat in the stands for foreign dignitaries and Important People and the like, knowing South Africa would be there too. Her stomach is a pool of nerves, partly from having to confront an old friend about what he would hate and partly because back home thousands of her people were turning on televisions at work, switching on radios, hoping, praying that their favourite eleven sportsmen would win them a victory.

Around her the stands gradually fill up with people in suits and dresses. They are vaguely aware of who she is, the young woman in the sari, in the same way her minor government ministers are vaguely aware of her existence. One seat remains empty, right up until the coin toss. South Africa sidles in just as her team begin to bat. He studiously avoids catching her eye and takes his seat, shaking hands with a few of his people and making his excuses. His skin is a curious mixture, a darker colour than hers but somehow managing to give an appearance of white, black and brown all at once. His hair is in tight black curls tied close to his skull, a sharp contrast to his Western suit but one that he carries off with a sense of quiet pride. His back is ramrod straight and he keeps his eyes carefully on the pitch, ignoring India's blatant stares. India sighs and turns away, deciding that if they were to have any sort of talk, it would be after the match. A few seconds later, one of hers hits a six and she applauds her approval, putting the South Africa's cold shouldering out of her mind.

The match continues in the way it starts and India abandons her polite applause and cheers loudly and unashamedly as her team soundly thrash South Africa's. When they finish play she shakes hands with the South Africans around her with barely hidden glee and rides the high of thousands of her people cheering as one. It is not until she catches a glance of South Africa's coolly blank face that her heart sinks a little. South Africa's eyes meet hers and he hurriedly gets up to leave the box.

India follows reluctantly, catching up to him easily in the crowd of people leaving the stands. She taps him on the shoulder and he turns around, his face like stone. She tries for a smile. "Hi?" the greeting comes out as more a question.

He nods his own greeting and turns back to the crowded doors.

She catches his wrist and holds it firmly, waiting until he turns back to her. "Why don't we go and get something to eat?"

"I'd rather not," his voice is hard. He looks down at her, half a head taller.

"My treat," she keeps her voice polite but the warmth is draining from it, "pick a restaurant."

He tugs his wrist away from her. "I'm sure you've got other people you'd rather eat with."

It is a snide comment, but South Africa is not always above those, as India knows. Even so, she feels a spark of annoyance.

"Look," she says, as they finally leave the humid stands and follow the thick, jabbering crowd away from the stadium, "stop being childish. I know why you're annoyed with me and I think we should talk about it."

He doesn't look at her, "I've got nothing to say,"

She grabs his shoulder and forces him to turn back to her. "Well, I've got a lot to say to you. And I think you'd prefer to hear it from me than listening the rumours flying around as you've been doing."

He stares at her, saying nothing for a few seconds. She forces her voice to soften and says "Come on, Mzansi, hear me out before you hate me,"

Maybe it is the nickname itself, or the ways she says the word right, but his eyes lose a little of their coldness. "Fine."

She smiles. "Good. I did need a lift." His lips twitch and he begins to lead her to his car. "And don't pick bland food," she adds, and he smiles properly.

 

 

 

 

He finds a tasteful enough restaurant on the outskirts of Port Elizabeth. A few of the stadium goers are there too but they are South Africans and thus have nothing to be too raucous about, as India thinks with a smirk. India gives herself a few minutes as they both pretend to read the menu before she launches into the matter.

"You haven't returned my calls," she accuses.

"I was busy."

She cocks an eyebrow. He shrugs.

"Don't be silly. Why are you ignoring me?"

"Well, I thought you and England would want a little time to yourselves," he says waspishly.

She hates it, hates how they all have to dance around the topic delicately until one of them stabs at it.  

"Well, you thought wrong. I wanted to talk to you."

"So why's everyone saying you and England are…"

"You'll have to ask them," she tells him, "I didn't ask them to say it."

"So they're just rumours?" The way his face lights up, hopeful, stings her.

She hesitates for a second and he seems to understand. His face darkens. "So it's true. You and England. Adorable," he says flatly.

"It's not like that."

"Pray tell, what is it like?" he snorts, "Didn't he bring a bunch of flowers and take you out somewhere?"

"He was in the country on a trade delegation," she begins, speaking fast, losing count of how many times she has had to say this recently, "he visited me, out of the blue. He wanted to talk. I didn't see a reason to say no. He wanted to…he wanted to apologise. For what he'd done."

"Why now?"

India shakes her head, "I don't know. It's not like he hasn't tried before. But this time. This time… we really talked about it. He didn't try and hide away."

"And then you kissed him."

"No!" India cries, "let me finish."

South Africa gestures for her to continue. They are interrupted by a waiter bringing food over. South Africa forces a smile in thanks and turns back to her. India continues to watch the waiter walk away, trying to find the words.

"We talked for a long time. About a lot of things. About what he'd done." she says slowly. "And we were both…honest, I suppose. Then, a week or two later, I was in Brussels for a trade meeting with the EU and he was there. He asked if I wanted to get lunch with him and I went. We talked again. Really _talked_." she stops, unsure of what else to say.

"And?" South Africa urges.

"That's it," she says, "that's all that's happened."

South Africa watches her for a few seconds. Then. slowly, his face breaks into a wide grin. "So there's really nothing between you two?"

India watches him, amused, "I can't believe you listened to the gossip,"

She doesn't ask what the other nations have been saying.

"I didn't really believe…I mean - he always sort of seemed to feel guiltier about you…I thought may you…" he struggles for words.

India smiles and picks up a fork and toys with her food, "Well then, you're an idiot, aren't you?"

South Africa smiles back, "I had good reason to be worried. England has always expected far too much forgiveness."

"Forgiveness isn't such a bad thing," India tells him, gently.

"Whatever it is, England doesn't deserve it," South Africa says, spearing a pea violently with his fork.

"That's not fair."

"'Course it's fair. Have you forgiven him?" he looks straight at her, dark eyes piercing into her own.

"I'm trying," she shrugs.

He looks at her incredulously. "A couple of apologies and you're won over? I don't believe you!"

"I haven't been _won over_ , Mzansi! But England's making an effort and I won't be the one to staunch the little humanity he's starting to show."

"Humanity?" he snorts, "Even Australia hasn't sunk that low and he bothers to preserve England's feelings far more than the rest of us. Don't be stupid, India, he just wants to get on your good side - I bet he's been to China sobbing about the Opium Wars too - "

"You're not seeing his humanity because you're refuse to, Mzansi!" India forces herself to stay reasonable. "He's asked me to visit for Christmas and I'm going - "

South Africa drops his knife with a clatter. "You're visiting him? You're visiting him? He's not your friend, India!"

"He could be."

South Africa flushes with anger. "Someone like England could never be a friend to you or me." His gaze is squarely on her but India knows that he is not seeing her; he is seeing her skin. The skin that has for more than a century made them slaves.

India feels a fire burning in her, a fire that gives her enough conviction to say, "I don't think Mandela would have agreed." It is a low blow and she knows it. She can see it in the reddening of South Africa's eyes. 

"Sorry," she says a little more kindly, "I shouldn't have…not so soon after - "

"It doesn't matter." he tells her brusquely, "I'm not England's friend. I won't ever be his friend. I'm perfectly civil to him - as…as _he_ would have wanted. But I'm not his friend. I won't dishonour the blood my people sacrificed so I could be free of him."

India can hear the fire roaring in her ears now. It is a fire not many people could ignite in her. But it was a fire that her own Mahatma - the man Mandela himself learnt from - kindled.

"Your people - my people - didn't give their lives so their sons and daughters would go on giving their lives up after them." she is leaning across the table, her eyes dancing darkly, "they died so we could be free. They died so we could stand as equals to the likes of England." 

"We do stand as equals to England," South Africa retorts.

She knows people are watching, wondering why the couple at the corner of the restaurant is arguing so heatedly in public, but she doesn't care.

"You won't ever be his equal if you hate him."

"I don't hate - "

"Of course you do!" India says, frustratedly. "it's been mellowed by the years but it's still hate. it's still there."

South Africa glares back at her, "He murdered your people. His people raped your women, he took your gold, his men washed your land with the blood of its own people - "

"His people are different now! The ones who've done this are dead!" she can see her words bounce off South Africa without the slightest effect so she tries again, "Mzansi," she says, her voice low and soft, "we can't hate each other. We can't, You've seen what it does, all this anger and this violence. It only hurts people - it does nothing else! Mzansi, blood won't ever wash away blood." 

South Africa looks at her wordlessly and for a few seconds, she sees his eyes glint in the low light of the room. For a few seconds she really believes - 

"You were his slave." He says in a dark voice, "we were all his slaves and now he's uttered a few magic words you've decided to be nobler than the rest of us and return to your master's side."

India considers many replies. She thinks of protesting, she thinks of yelling. She thinks of scathing remarks that would wound him more than she'd ever done before in the long years they'd suffered together. In the end she only repeats in a very small voice, "Blood won't ever wash away blood."

They finish their meal in silence. South Africa beats her to paying and walks out wordlessly. Outside, in the gathering gloom of evening he stomps off to his car without so much as a backward glance. India doubts very much that he will take her to her hotel now so she leaves the other way, searching through unfamiliar streets for the place, wondering all the while if she should ever have taken England's side over South Africa's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mzansi - colloquial nickname for South Africa, derived from the Xhosa noun umzantsi meaning "south". I'd imagine he'd let India call him this.


	4. France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's England's turn now

England and his people had never really decided where they stood on the EU. However, at times like this, England thought he knew exactly where he stood: on an island, prodding Europe away with a very long stick.

He was rifling through a cupboard in the kitchenette by their meeting room, coming up against packs and packs of the fruit teas Europeans seemed to love so much. Why they didn’t keep a decent Darjeeling or Earl Grey around he didn’t know – it wasn’t like he was the only one; England knew for a fact Portugal and Ireland hadn’t surrendered to the march of the lemon tea either and still liked a proper brew –

“Salut,” said a quiet voice behind him.

England’s only reply was a grunt – he had found a battered box of Lady Grey at the back of the cupboard.

A smooth hand plucked a teabag from a fruit tea box he had cast aside in his quest. France fetched another mug from the sink and held it out, beaming, for some of the hot water England had boiled.

England glared at him as he poured it in.

“How was your Christmas?” asked France politely, reverting to English.

“The same as ever,” England told him shortly, passing him a spoon. “I expect you spent it with Germany, then?”

France smirked. “Naturally.” He watched England squashing a teabag into his mug. “But surely yours was a little livelier than usual this year?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well I just thought that what with India visiting and all –“

England paused in the action of binning his teabag.

“She does visit every now and again, you know.”

“I didn’t think the two of you were an – oh, what’s the American word – _item_ – on previous occasions.”

France amused himself with England’s splutters for a few seconds.

“We’re not an – what are you even – _France_!” England said his name in a tone that suggested he had committed a crime as foul as queue-jumping, or making England emotional in public.

“Ah, we all like our whispers,” smiled France indulgently, “sometimes so much that they skitter back to the person they’re about.”

“What whispers? What have you heard?” demanded England.

“I’m sure you know the rumours better than I do, being one of the subjects of them.”

England seethed at France, who seemed to be fighting a smile.

“Angleterre, you should be flattered the world is whispering about you having any sort of romantic affair at all. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

England put his cup down on the old worn kitchenette counter and crossed his arms. “So people think India and I are..?”

France quirked his lips delicately, “Apparently you’ve been meeting her every chance you’ve had. People are intrigued. Admittedly I don’t think anyone has seen you even touch her out of turn yet – “

“That’s because I haven’t!”

“I did assert that no romance of yours would be steamy enough for frequent physical contact.”

“France, be serious, how many people actually think this?” England heard a little tremble of worry into his voice.

France looked at him levelly for several seconds. “Well, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that the two of you seemed to be around each other a lot at the EU-Asia trade summit. And of course people heard about your Christmas together. They put two and two together and imagined a fair few other numbers and calculated that the two of you were starting a morally questionable relationship. I’m sure it was the idle talk of many post-meeting lunches.”

England made a noise of irritation. “You’d think we’d learn to stop gossiping,” he muttered.

France put on a carefully-made mask of horror. “Stop gossiping? How would we ever keep going, Angleterre?”

When England only rolled his eyes he continued, “In any case, if you’re so sensitive about this I suggest you make all of your future meetings more discrete.”

“France we’re not…it’s not what you think.” England picked up his cup again and took a scalding sip, for something else to look at. “I just wanted to talk to her. Say, you know, say sorry.”

France gave him a curious look. “Has your conscience awoken all of a sudden?” he asked slowly.

England took another sip, carefully looking at his tea. “It’s just something I should do, really.”

“I did hear that you went all out this Christmas.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well it’s not often that you persuade Jamaica, India, Australia and New Zealand to spend Christmas with you in the same year.”

England shrugged, “Well, it’s beyond time I made an effort to, you know, to fix things.”

France nodded and said nothing. They turned to look out of the kitchenette doorway, leaning on the counter. France fiddled with his cup. Greece and Portugal walked out of their almost empty meeting room across the hallway, nodding curtly to Germany, who remained at the doorway. The latter watched them leave sombrely and went back inside. England caught France’s face tighten at this but was interrupted before he could voice anything –

“It’s not exactly the same, is it? You making an effort with India and you making an effort with Australia and the others.” France said lightly, downing his tea.

“Why’s that?”

France crossed to the sink and started rinsing out his mug. Over the weedy rush of the tap, he said, “You’re not in love with the others, are you?”

England felt something hot wash across his chest and shoulders. He said nothing until France had dried his cup and placed it back in the cupboard with the others. “You’re insane.” He said shortly.

France smiled in what seemed to be a placating manner. “Let’s both humour my insanity for now.”

“Look I’m telling you, we’ve just been talking!” said England, frustrated, “Christ, I bloody _speak_ to her and you all think we’re having sex – “

“Angleterre, your little sorties with her aren’t so much the cause as the confirmation of our theory.”

“Who’s ‘our’?” England demanded.

France ignored him. “Of course it was mostly just a topic of gossip for a while and people moved on. They didn’t know their speculations were actually true for once. But having suffered your existence for this long, I know an accurate rumour about you when I hear one.”

England snorted and took a long, haughty mouthful of tea. “So you think I’m – I’m _in love_ with her?” He couldn’t even say the words without making a face.

“I imagine a few of your ex-colonies will have worked out your feelings too,” France continued mildly, “perhaps even before you did. And Portugal, of course. And I know. Perhaps even India knows your feelings. It’s only you who is ignorant of them, actually.”

“You’re being absurd.”

France was suddenly impatient. “Angleterre, for heavens’ sake stop playing about. Sublety is lost on you so I’ll be blunt: if you wish to pursue a relationship with India, I recommend that you behave with a little more discretion.”

“Right, well thank you for that unwanted piece of advice, France,” began England haughtily.

“Angleterre. I don’t think you realise how audacious you’re being,” said France tersely.

England rolled his eyes again. Without permission, the image of India and himself being able to hold hands in front of other nations without consternation flashed across his mind – an image he’d destroyed by his own doing before it could ever happen. An image that shouldn’t be imagined, he told himself sternly.

France sighed exasperatedly and crossed to the other side of the room. After a few seconds he turned back to England and said, “You could have just settled down with Portugal, you know.”

England was thrown off by this. “What’s Portugal got to do with this?”

France paced back slowly, hands in the pockets of his tailored suit, “You were happy by her side, you know. And you still are. And there’s no denying that things would be easier if you and her…but never mind that,” he said, coming to a stop in front of England, “you’ve fallen hopelessly for India as any slightly lesser fool than yourself would probably be able to tell. So, India it is.”

England was reddening slowly. He swallowed and said nothing.

France continued, his dark eyes looking into England’s, “But I’m warning you, the rumours are starting. Perhaps it would be best to let them die down. The rest of the world does not tolerate your brashness as much as we do.”

“France we haven’t done anything yet,” England’s voice came out more pleadingly than he intended, “I mean it. Nothing. We’ve just been talking a lot.”

“But surely you both know this is no casual little friendship?”

England took his time in draining the last of this tea and setting the mug down carefully. “I haven’t told her explicitly how I, you know, how I…feel. But I think she knows,” he said quietly.

France snickered. “How romantic.”

England shoved his side half-heartedly. “Shut up, France.”

But he continued. “So she knows you’ve gone and fallen in love with her and yet she continues your little…chats?”

“Do think this is wrong, France?” England asked suddenly. “Should I stop?”

France raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you need me to answer that, Angleterre.”

“I just wanted to set things right,” England continued in his hurried voice, “It’s not even about – about any other feelings right now. I want to set things right.”

“Does she know that?”

“Of course she does. But even then, if this is the way I fe – things are, maybe the right thing to do is to back off?”

France said nothing for a long moment. Then: “Angleterre, you have done many absurd things in your life. Not all of them – a surprisingly high number, in fact – have not ended as badly as one would have expected.”

“But is that reason enough to go ahead with this?”

France made a noise of amused impatience. “Do you think you can stop now? Do you think if you gave up seeing her you would somehow sew yourself seamlessly back into the fabric of Europe and spend a few nights a week with Portugal and be happy?”

“I will if I have to.”

France looked as if words were dithering on his tongue. “After all that has passed between you, a few years ago I would have said that that would be the only right thing to do, to wait for the feelings to fade and carry on. But now – now maybe I would tell you differently.”

Two pairs of eyes flickered to Germany’s silhouette pacing about the meeting room, softened by the blurred panes of the door.

England pursed his lips. “Look, this is no torrid love affair. We’ve been talking to each other so much more – really _talking_ – and maybe that’ll be enough for me.”

“Are you seeing her again?”

England hesitated. “There’s another trade delegation in February. She asked whether I’d be coming.”

“ _She_ asked?” France smirked.

England huffed. “At least trade delegations are harder to spy on than meetings and Christmases.”

“So you are trying to keep it a secret?” France offered, smirking wider.

“It’s not a secret. Well. It might be. I don’t suppose she wants people knowing just yet.” England said gruffly.

“Do you?”

“I don’t need it to be known. In any case, it’s her choice whether we tell people.”

“I see. She has the historical…right of way?”

“That’s the one.” England picked up his mug and went to wash it. “I don’t even want to think about what would happen if this ever got out,” he said in a would-be casual voice.

France watched his ears reddening. “Angleterre, the rest of the world isn’t important here,” he cut in before England could do a dramatic eye roll, “It all depends on if she will have you. If she will, the world will find a way to live with that. If they ever know, that is.”

England chose to carry on washing his mug meticulously.

France persisted, “And if you can be faithful to her, maybe one day a few centuries from now, the good can outweigh the bad.”

“Do you think I’d betray her?” England asked quietly at last, speaking to the cupboard above the sink.

“You are a treacherous, profit-driven person.” France told the back of England’s head solemnly.

“Do you think I’d betray her?” England repeated softly.

“You have lied to her many times.”

France watched England scrub the gleaming mug for a few seconds longer.

“No,” he said quietly, “I don’t think you would. Not anymore.”


End file.
